


Stop

by carolroi (CarolROI)



Series: The Mad Season [6]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7967821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolROI/pseuds/carolroi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair works out some frustrations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Sixth story in the Mad Season series. "Stop" by CarolROI.
> 
> The Mad Season, a cycle of Sentinel fiction by Carolroi and Suisan, connected by the songs of Matchbox 20.

The pulsing neon light from the strip bar across the street flickers like a strange form of Morse code against my closed eyelids. I wonder if it's trying to send me a message, to impart the secrets of the universe to me. Or maybe it's just saying over and over, "Loser. Loser. Sandburg is a loser." 

Punching the pillow into a slightly more comfortable shape, I roll over. After driving for about six hours, Owen took pity on me and decided I could use a good night's sleep in a real bed. My head was killing me, so I didn't argue. Now it's 1 am, and I've been tossing and turning for about four hours. Finally I get to my feet and pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Pocketing one of the room keys, I pick up my portable CD player and head out the hotel room door, careful not to wake my uncle. 

Standing on the balcony outside the room, I look out over the railing into the night. The street lights are reflected like wavering stars in the puddles covering the parking lot. Mist continues to fall, and I reconsider my thought of going for a run. While the atmosphere certainly suits my mood, getting cold and wet is taking the idea of matching my physical condition to my mental one a little too far. Instead, I opt for a quick walk around the perimeter of the two-story, U-shaped motel, under cover of the overhangs, of course. 

It's then I spot the weight room next to the laundry room. It requires a key to access it. I swipe my plastic card through the reader, and the light turns green. I tug the glass door open and enter. There's not much here, just a few free weights, an exercise bike that's seen better days, and a treadmill with a sign reading "Broken" on it-- the story of my life. 

As I turn to leave, I spy the heavy bag hanging in the corner and it brings back memories of Roy Jones trying to teach me how to box. We were just kids then, hanging out at the local gym after school. Sweet Roy had talent. I didn't, but that didn't prevent me from learning to throw a punch, or how to take out the day's frustrations on a canvas bag full of padding. 

Walking over to the bag, I take a poke at it. The impact stings across my bare knuckles, but it feels right somehow. I start to turn on my CD player, to give me a rhythm, when I spy the dusty boom box tucked along the wall, a bicycle chain through the handle and a lock attached to a steel eyelet in the wall keeping it from wandering off. I take my CD out of my player and stick it in the boom box cranking the volume as high as it will go, knowing the location of the room will keep other guests from being disturbed. Cuing up the track I want, I set it on repeat, then shadowbox for a few minutes to get warmed up. Finally I approach the bag, the growling guitars and thumping bass matching the pounding of my heart.

 _Yes it's true that I believe_  
_I'm weaker than I used to be_  
_I wear my heart out on my sleeve_  
_and I forget the rest of me_

Images of Roy flow freely across my mind's eye. It couldn't be the good times, of course, but that awful gut wrenching moment when Jim walked past me in the rain, mumbling "Oh, no. Oh, Chief...I'm sorry."

 _Sorry about what?_ I had stupidly wondered, and then I saw Roy's beaten body hanging out of the culvert pipe. He was my friend! The punching bag takes a one-two combination to the gut. 

_Yes there's times I've been afraid_  
_and there's no harm in that I pray_  
_cuz I'm more frightened everyday_  
_someone will take the hope I have away_

Alex. I think I can honestly say she scared me the most. She was all the genetic advantages of a Sentinel, packaged in a soul that didn't know the difference between good and evil. I can still feel the gun pressed tight against my back as we crossed the lawn to the fountain, taste the sting of chlorine in my mouth, my nose, my eyes, the tight, burning ache in my lungs. I add a kick to my flurry of punches, and the chain holding the bag creaks loudly. I settle into a pattern, losing myself in the thundering music and the slap, slap, creak of my blows.

_But you gotta give it up_  
_to get off sometimes_  
_you gotta give it up_  
_to get off sometimes_  
_you gotta give it up_  
_to get off sometimes I know_

This, I know. I am the master of giving it up. And in, and out. The peacemaker, the negotiator, the compromiser, that was me. And what do I get? The one time I refuse to give in, to compromise, to overlook a transgression, I get fired. People don't like it when the doormat objects to being trampled on. Punch, punch, kick, punch, kick, punch, punch. 

I dance back, panting, shaking my head, drops of sweat flying.

_All the times I've given in_  
_you fit me like a second skin_  
_and one by one I will begin_  
_to wear you on the days I'm feeling thin_

I don't know who I am anymore. I used to. I used to know what Blair Sandburg wanted out of life. Admittedly, some of those things were rather shallow, but at least I knew. But for the past several years my life revolved around Jim, around the sentinel thing. Everything else took a back seat to that, including my work, my health, and of course, the reason I hooked up with him in the first place, my dissertation. For all intents and purposes, I was an appendage of him. Parts of myself, of who I am, slid away, replaced by parts of him. I started checking my humanity at the door.

_But you gotta give it up_  
_to get off sometimes_  
_you gotta give it up_  
_to get off sometimes_  
_you gotta give it up_  
_to get off sometimes I know_

My fists are flying now, my fingers numb and bleeding.

_You'd better stop, stop, stop_  
_using me up_  
_you'd better stop_  
_cuz I've had enough_  
_and I'm ready to forget the reasons_  
_that keep me here_

I'm screaming the lyrics, then shoving out the door at a dead run, into the night, into the rain. 

_In the rain_  
_Beware even if you know they're gonna change_  
_Good God, need a little love, well_  
_You'll find what you think you're gonna be, child_

I don't recognize who I am now. But I'm sure as hell going to find out. 

_You'd better stop, stop, stop_  
_using me up_  
_you'd better stop_  
_cuz I've had enough_  
_and I'm ready to forget the reasons_  
_keepin'me here._


End file.
